


Alive Right Now

by allonsy_gabriel, defendedbymypen, Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: History Obliterates (the Hamilton Reincarnation AU No One Wanted) [30]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Babies, Bad Parenting, Books, Boys Kissing, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Shopping, Copious Amounts of Fluff, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/F, F/M, Gay, Hurricane Alexander, Kid Fic, Libby is a Sweetheart, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Other, Peggy is...... a wild child but that's nothing new, Slow Dancing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but like, happy sibling fluff, i'm sorry i tried please don't get mad, tiny hurricane alexander, warning for shitty spanish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-14 08:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/defendedbymypen/pseuds/defendedbymypen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: It's Christmas, and everyone has their own story to tell.(WasSomething They Can Never Take Awaybut then I realized I already have a fic under that name, so Here We Are.)





	1. Alexander

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas!!!
> 
> apologies for shitty uses of other languages, and i apologise if i misconstrue anything. if something in any particular language was incorrect, please point it out and i'll fix it as quickly as i can!!!
> 
> that being said, this fic is going to be a hodgepodge of snapshots of different Christmas scenes, set at different points along the History Obliterates timeline. we've all worked very hard on each little snippet, and we hope you enjoy!!
> 
> the first story is from Alexander's point of view when he's about eight years old! :)

##  Alexander 

OoOoO

Sofia Hayley woke up at six am to an overly enthusiastic eight-year-old hopping up and down at the end of her bed. 

“Mama, mama, get up! Wake up! It’s Christmas!” her little boy all but shouted as he shook her shoulder. 

“Buenos dias, Alexander,” she said, rolling her eyes as she sat up.

“ _ C’mon _ , it’s  _ Christmas _ !” Alexander insisted, tugging at Sofia’s sleeve.

“Is it, now?” Sofia teased, hoisting herself to her feet, “Are you sure? I think Christmas came  _ last  _ year, niño.” 

“It comes  _ every year _ , Mama! You  _ know that _ ,” Alexander argued, “Now we got to  _ go _ !”

“What’s the hurry, my little Alex?” Sofia asked, laughing as she allowed herself to be pulled into the living room of their little flat.

“There are  _ presents to open _ !” Alexander shouted, sitting himself down next to the tree. Sofia laughed at her son’s antics and headed for the kitchen.

“Coffee first, mijo,” she said. She heard her son huff as he marched over to her and tugged at the hem of her shirt.

“But  _ mama _ ,” he insisted, “Presents are  _ more important _ than  _ coffee _ . ‘Sides, coffee is  _ gross _ .”

“What if I made cocoa?” Sofia offered.

Alexander seemed to think it over for a moment. “Only if it has peppermints  _ and _ cinnamon,” he demanded, as if he was haggling for some trade deal, not the merits of hot chocolate over Christmas presents.

“ _ And _ cinnamon?”

“ _ And cinnamon _ . Final offer.”

Sofia ruffled the boy’s hair. “You drive a hard bargain,” she said, “But, I suppose you can have both. It  _ is  _ Christmas.”

Alexander cheered before running back to the living room. “Alexander?” Sofia called.

“Si?” 

“Would you put on some music? You know where the CD player is?” 

Alexander didn’t reply, but a moment later the small apartment was filled with the sounds of Christmas.

A few minutes later, Sofia rejoined her son, two steaming mugs in hand. “Feliz Navidad,” she said, handing Alexander his cocoa.

“Feliz Navidad, Mama,” Alexander replied, taking a large gulp of his drink before setting it to the side. “Now!” he proclaimed, “Presents!”

Sofia pressed a quick kiss to Alexander’s head before pulling a rectangular package out from underneath the small tree. “Here we go,” she said, placing it in front of Alexander.

The eight-year-old stared at the gift for a moment, taking in the shiny paper and large bow, before ripping it open.

Alexander held the massive book in his hands. The golden lion on the cover stared back at him as he traced the red letters.

_ The Chronicles of Narnia. _

Sofia had seen it in the window at the bookstore next to the diner she worked at downtown. All seven books wrapped up together. It was perfect, and Sofia had bought it the next day.

She was hardly surprised to see her son already nose deep in the pages. “Alexander,” she said teasingly, “there are more gifts to open.”

Alexander hesitated for a split second before carefully placing the book to the side.

They opened the rest of the gifts—Alexander also got a new shirt and some pretzels, and in return, he’d given her a card with a poem he’d written inside; Sofia gingerly folded it and placed it in her pocket—before Sofia clapped her hands. “C’mon, niño, your grandmother expects us at eleven, and you haven’t even brushed your hair yet,” she said.

“Do we  _ have to go _ ?” Alexander whined.

“Yes, Alexander,” Sofia insisted, “We only ever see your grandmother at Christmas. We don’t want her to forget what you look like, do we?”

“No,” Alexander admitted, “But she lives  _ so far away _ , and her house is always sad.”

“You can read your new book in the car,” Sofia supplied, “And your grandmother’s house isn’t  _ sad _ —”

“Uh, yeah,” Alexander interrupted, “it totally is. She always cries when she sees me!”

“Alexander, you know why—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexander cut in, “I know why she cries. But it’s not my fault I look like Dad! It isn’t fair!  _ You _ don’t cry at me all the time!”

“Alexander Manuel Hayley, don’t take that tone with me!” Sofia snapped. Alexander immediately stopped talking, his eyes wide.

Sofia sometimes forgot how  _ young _ her son was. He was so clever that it was easy to forget. Even when he was acting seemingly childish, there was always  _ something there _ that hinted at age and wisdom beyond his eight years.

But at times like this, when those large, brown eyes were turned on her, she was reminded that he was so  _ small _ . So innocent, so naive, so desperate to know how the world worked and  _ why _ it worked, and yet so pure that he  _ couldn’t  _ know.

“Alexander,” she began quietly, opening her arms to the little boy, “Your father was your grandmother’s only child. When she lost him, she was left all alone. So, yes, she is sad. But seeing you? It makes her happy, and isn’t that what Christmas is all about?”

Alexander sighed and nodded. Sofia kissed his head. “Now,” she said, “You need to get dressed. You can't just show up in your pajamas!” 

OoOoO

“Alex!” Alexander’s grandmother was quick to scoop Alexander into a hug. “Look at how big you’ve gotten! Oh, you are just the  _ spitting image _ of your father!”

Alexander was stiff under his grandmother’s onslaught. “Hi, Nana,” he replied.

Eleanor Hayley ushered Sofia and Alexander into the living room. Alexander hastily took the spot next to his mother on the loveseat, clutching his new book to his chest. The ribbon that served as Alexander’s bookmark was already deep within the pages. 

“Now,” Eleanor said, sitting in the large, high backed, rather horribly printed easy chair in the opposite corner of the room, “Dinner should be done by two, and in the meantime, there are plenty of snacks in the cupboard.” Alexander grinned, and Sofia nudged him with her elbow.  _ Of course _ , he would light up the moment Eleanor mentioned food. Alexander rarely stopped eating. “And after dinner comes presents. But, while we wait, maybe you could catch me up on everything that’s going on with you two! What grade are you in now, Alex?”

Alexander forced himself to smile, running his hand through his short curls. “Third,” he answered. “But Ms. Sheridan says that if I wanted to, I could take the fourth-grade math classes.” Casting a quick glance at his mother, who was focused for the time being on his grandmother, he began edging his way toward the cupboard, eyeing it hungrily. 

“Ah, so  _ smart _ !” Eleanor cooed. Alexander just forced himself to grin. “Just like your dad! Do you play any sports? I know you did something with baseball last year, I’m so sorry I could make it to a game—”

Alexander interrupted her with a snort. “Baseball  _ sucks _ ,” he said. “It’s so  _ boring _ ! You just chase a ball! Or hit a ball! Or run!  _ None _ of that is fun.” Sofia glared at her son.

Eleanor seemed taken aback. “Then what  _ do  _ you do for fun?” she asked.

Alexander’s face lit up like the Christmas tree in the corner. “Well, this morning, we were opening presents, and Momma got me  _ this _ !” he enthused, holding up his new book. Sofia felt her face crack into a wide smile. “It’s seven  _ whole books _ , in  _ one book _ ! It's the  _ Chronicles of Narnia _ , see? I’ve already read, like, one and a half of the books and I  _ love it _ !”

“One and a half, huh?” Sofia asked.

“Yup!” Alexander confirmed. “I read the  _ entire way  _ here, and it was a  _ really long time _ .”

“So you like books?” Eleanor prompted.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Alexander enthused. “I have, like, at  _ least _ twenty at home, and I’ve read  _ all _ of them. Mostly more than once. Some of them are kinda boring, but they’re still pretty okay. I just like books, especially ones about pirates or knights or—”

“Alex,” Eleanor interrupted, “Would you like to look at some of the books I have?”

The reaction was immediate. “ _ Yes _ , yes, please!” Alexander said eagerly, hopping up off the loveseat and all but bouncing as he looked around the room.

Eleanor smiled, taking the young boy’s hand and ushering him to a room at the end of the hall— _ Will’s room _ . Sofia followed behind quietly, watching the scene in front of her unfold, tugging back the tears at the corners of her eyes.

“These were your father’s,” Eleanor explained, gesturing to the stacks of old books on the desk, the nightstand, the dresser, even the  _ bed _ . “He never stopped reading. I’d walk in on him in the middle of the night, hidden under six different blankets to try and hide the light from his flashlight, as if that didn’t make it  _ more _ obvious.” Eleanor laughed to herself, and Sofia noticed the way her eyes glistened under the lights. “I don’t know what all he has in here,” she continued, “but you can have them. He—he’d want you to have them.”

Alexander looked like he was in heaven, gingerly picking up each book and reading the back cover. After a moment he bit his lip and stared at his mother and grandmother. “These… these were my dad’s?” he asked.

Sofia glanced over at her mother-in-law and saw the telltale glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“Yes, they are,” Eleanor replied. Alexander sat himself down on his father’s bed, turning a book over in his hands.

“Can you tell me about him?” he asked quietly.

Sofia felt her smile catch in her throat. “Of course we can, niño,” she said, sitting down next to her son as Eleanor took to his other side.

The stories they told pulled them long into the night.


	2. Angie, Libby, and Peggy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SCOTTS!! THE SCOTTS ARE HERE!! I love them, my babs, precious siblings, they are Wonderful, hA V E TH E M 
> 
> just 
> 
> *throws happy christmas siblings fluff all over you* 
> 
> have them

Angelica Scott wasn’t used to this. 

She was used to her parents being gone, yes. She was used to having to look after her sisters and step into the role of a surrogate parent in their absence. She was used to being alone—because no matter how surrounded she was by the love of her sisters, in the end Angelica was their confidant, their protector, while she herself had no one to turn to. 

She was used to all that. She handled it well. 

But this was different, because it was Christmas Eve, and their parents were  _ always _ here for Christmas, they  _ never _ did this, and yet here she was, clutching the phone close to her ear and trying to make herself believe that this was some kind of joke. 

_ “I’m sorry, sweetie,” _ her father was saying over the phone, and she hated that, the way he called her “sweetie.” As though it made a difference what he called her, as though it made her any more his daughter.  _ “We just can’t get home in time for tomorrow. Don’t worry, though, you girls can open your presents without us.”  _

_ “You’re going to love everything we got you this year!” _ her mother chimed in, and Angelica hated  _ that _ , too—the way her parents tried to act as if their lavish spending could make up for everything they refused to give their daughters. As if buying something expensive and slapping a bow on it was the equivalent of—of everything that Angelica wanted and Libby needed and Peggy barely understood. 

“Okay,” Angelica said tiredly. “Alright. See you in a qeek.” 

_ “See you,” _ her father said.  _ “We love you, Angie!”  _

_ “Tell your sisters we love them, too!”  _ her mother said. 

They didn’t even sound sorry, Angelica thought numbly. 

“I will. I love you, too,” she said, and as she hung up, she wondered if she was lying or not, if she really did love them. How could you love someone you hardly knew? How could you love someone who effectively abandoned you whenever it was convenient? 

Though she supposed that, if she really didn’t love them, it wouldn’t make her want to cry just knowing that they weren’t there. 

OoOoO 

Libby actually did cry. 

Angelica  _ wanted _ to cry, sure, but at nineteen, she’d grown skilled in the art of packing away her emotions. Besides, nineteen-year-olds weren’t supposed to cry about something like not seeing their parents for the holidays. Libby cried—not a lot, but she did. 

Peggy should have cared more than she did. A tiny eleven-year-old girl like her should have been heartbroken by the fact that her parents couldn’t even be bothered to come home for Christmas. It truly spoke of just what their parents had done to this family that Peggy only shrugged and said, “Okay. Libby said she’s making fifty cookies which is a  _ lot _ but we get even more now ‘cause there’s only three of us!” 

“That’s right, Pegs,” Angelica had said, wondering just what the hell went wrong and when and  _ why _ . 

There was a reason Angelica had decided not to move away for college, and this was it. This was the reason. She was going to a college in the very same city, still living under her parents’ roof—not because she wanted to stay, necessarily, but because who else was going to love her sisters? 

A nanny? A babysitter? 

Certainly not their parents. 

No, it had to be Angelica. She’d resigned herself to that fact a long time ago, and here she was faced with it again, and though the circumstances were different and Angelica really wasn’t used to this, it wasn’t all that unfamiliar a feeling. They’d missed Peggy’s birthday, too, once. She’d been five years old, and Angelica and Libby had been ready for tears when they told her that Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t be there to see her blow out the candles on the day she turned six. 

Peggy hadn’t cried then, either, Angelica realized with a start. Hadn’t even shed a tear. 

She remembered suddenly when Peggy was seven and started having nightmares that no one could explain. They’d gone away before long—Angelica had her suspicions, and she knew from the look on Libby’s face that she did, too, but regardless, the dreams eventually stopped coming and no great revelations were had on Peggy’s part—but during the months when Peggy would wake up crying, both Angelica and her mother would come running down the hall. 

“Mommy, Mommy, I’m scared,” Peggy would sob, and when her mother would reach for her, she would twist away from her, reaching out instead for Angelica. 

Angelica had been fifteen at the time. She remembered the tension in the room, so thick you could cut it with a knife, as she held Peggy and whispered words of comfort in her ear, while her mother stood there awkwardly. She remembered the spike of vindictive pleasure she’d gotten when Peggy calmed down in her arms. 

_ That’s right, that’s what you get for leaving us like that. You don’t get to play “Mommy” whenever it’s convenient for you. I’m the one who always has to be there for them, and yet you think you’re going to be the one they reach out for? You think you get to do that?  _

“Well, you don’t,” Angelica whispered coldly. 

“What?” her mother had asked, bewildered. “I don’t what?” 

“Nothing,” Angelica had said, shaking her head and walking out of the room. 

Libby was fifteen now, and she couldn’t have been more different from how Angelica had been. Where Angelica had been cold and standoffish toward her parents in every way she could be, Libby was—well, not warm and friendly, but polite and civil, at the least. Where Angelica had been abrasive, Libby was gentle; where Angelica was strong-willed to the point of stubbornness, Libby was flexible to the point that she could sometimes be a complete doormat. 

Where Angelica would have lashed out in anger, Libby cried. 

“Libby, what’s wrong? Why’re you crying? Is it because of Mom and Dad?” Peggy prodded, reaching out to poke Libby in the shoulder, and right there was another change—their parents weren’t “Mommy” and “Daddy” to Peggy, not anymore. “Is it? D’you miss them? D’you miss them a whole lot, Libby?” 

“I… yeah, Pegs,” Libby said. “I mean—I don’t know. I think I miss them.” 

“Well, they’re never here anyway, and you don’t usually cry,” Peggy said, shrugging. “Sometimes they’re gone for, like, whole months. What’sa matter this time?” 

At this, Libby let out a sound of frustration. “It’s  _ Christmas _ , Peggy!” she said, her voice rising to become almost shrill. “It’s Christmas and they’re not  _ here _ !” 

Peggy sighed. “I know  _ that _ .” 

Libby’s fists clenched, and she turned away. Angelica met her eyes for just a moment, saw the deep loneliness there, and saw what was behind it—a quiet wisdom, a mind that had seen more tragedy than Libby’s fifteen-year-old eyes and body ever would, if Angelica could do anything about it. 

Angelica knew where that wisdom had come from. She’d been the first to know, the first person Libby ever told—and as far as she was aware, the  _ only _ person Libby ever told. 

And so here was the part where she stepped in, where she lightly touched Libby’s shoulder in a gesture of—solidarity?—and reached out to cup Peggy’s cheek, drawing their gazes together. 

“Peggy,” she said, looking her little sister in the eyes, “This is really upsetting for Libby. Our parents haven’t ever been gone on Christmas before.” 

“Oh,” Peggy said, shrugging again. “Are you sure? Feels like they have. I mean, they’re always gone.” 

Angelica bit her lower lip. “You’re right, sweetheart, they are always gone. Listen, I know you don’t understand how Libby’s feeling right now, Pegs, but don’t you think you can try to compassionate?” 

“Compassionate. That means caring,” Peggy said. She phrased it as a statement, but Angelica could hear the question hidden in her words. 

“That’s right,” she affirmed, nodding. 

“Okay,” Peggy said. She didn’t say anything else, clearly expecting the conversation to be over. Angelica gave her a Look, communicating exactly what she expected. Peggy scowled right back. Angelica crossed her arms, waiting. 

“Uh, Libby… I’m sorry,” Peggy mumbled finally, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I shoulda been more compassionate.” 

Libby heaved a long sigh, and reached up to wipe the tears from her face, tears which had already begun to stop flowing. “It’s… it’s fine, Peggy. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re fine.” 

Peggy glanced away as Libby spoke—when she said that she hadn’t done anything wrong. 

She didn’t respond. 

OoOoO 

Libby made cookies, as promised. 

She woke up earliest, as she always did, just after the sun rose, and when the first batch was finished, she crept softly into Angelica’s room, gently prodding her awake. 

Libby watched with a small smile on her face as Angelica rolled over, groaning, and pulled a pillow over her head. “...time is it?” she mumbled blearily. 

“Christmas cookie time,” Libby responded cheerfully, and watched as Angelica suddenly shot up in bed, eyes wide, hair wild, looking for all the world like a madwoman on a rampage. 

“It’s Christmas. Shit, Libby, it’s  _ Christmas _ ,” Angelica said, staring at her in awe. 

Libby grinned. “And I made cookies.” 

Libby swore she could  _ see _ Angelica’s mouth watering as she gazed longingly at the tray of cookies that Libby had brought into the bedroom. She reached out for one, then hesitated, frowning slightly. Libby tried not to feel a pang of sadness at the worry lines already etched into Angelica’s brow—she was only nineteen, too young to have those yet. 

Lord knows she’d had them by nineteen, the first time around, but that… that had been different. 

“Cookies for breakfast?” Angie questioned, her hand hovering over the baked treats, clearly making a huge effort to resist the tantalizing aroma. 

In response, Libby just shrugged. 

“It’s Christmas,” she said. 

Angelica seemed to think that was justification enough as she immediately grinned and snatched a cookie from the tray, biting into it and immediately closing her eyes in delight as she savored the taste. 

“Amazing,” she moaned. “Perfection. Absolute perfection. You’ve done it again, Libby.” 

“I’m glad you like it. You’re helping out with the next batch, by the way, and don’t give me any excuses because there’s no getting out of that,” Libby responded, waggling her finger playfully. 

Angelica only smiled. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, and Libby could see that she meant every word. 

Not bothering to shower or get dressed (it was  _ Christmas morning _ , come on) Angelica soon headed down the stairs with Libby to the kitchen to get started on the second batch of cookies. It wasn’t very long before there were a few telltale  _ thuds _ from upstairs and the very distinctive sound of a door being thrown open wildly. 

“IT’S CHRISTMAS!” Peggy screamed, and Libby and Angelica exchanged smiles. 

Libby grinned, placing the last of the (rather imperfectly cut) dough onto the baking sheet and sliding it into the oven as she heard Peggy’s footsteps on the stairs. “It’s Christmas and there’s presents and it’s  _ Christmas _ and there’s  _ presents _ and ohmygod cookies I love you both,” the tiny eleven-year-old said, all in one breath, as she appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. 

“We’ve got a batch already made,” Angelica said, nodding at the tray sitting on the counter. “Well. Libby made them. They’re cooled off and ready for decorating, if you wanted to—” 

But Angelica’s words were all but lost on her youngest sister; Peggy was already diving into the batch of cookies with incredible vigor. 

“These are  _ amazing _ ,” she said between mouthfuls, making both Libby and Angelica wince. 

“No one wants to see what you’re chewing, Peggy,” Angelica admonished, immediately enough that Libby could tell it was out of habit, a knee-jerk reaction. 

“Oh, come on, Angie, it’s Christmas,” Peggy said, again without bothering to heed her older sister’s advice and swallow first. “Lighten up! Live a little!” 

“By chewing with my mouth open? No, thanks,” Angelica said, rolling her eyes as she reached for the Tupperware container filled with frosting and other decorating materials. She tossed it to Peggy, who caught it reflexively. “Manners actually do have some merit, you know.” 

“Not on Christmas, they don’t,” Peggy said. 

“Christmas is no excuse to act like a  _ heathen _ ,” Libby teased. 

Peggy puffed out her cheeks in annoyance as she opened the container, pulling out a tube of frosting. “Fine, whatever you say,  _ Mom _ ,” she said. 

And just like that, Libby’s teasing grin was gone. 

“I’m not your mom,” she said. 

“I know, I know, I was just joking,” Peggy said, giggling as she squirted frosting onto one of the cookies. 

“I’m not your mom,” Libby repeated. “Mom’s not  _ here _ . Mom and Dad aren’t  _ here _ .” 

Saying that sent a sharp jolt of pain shooting through her heart, because they were always here for Christmas. Because every single day this year that they were gone, every single day that she’d missed them, every single day that she’d desperately craved a mother to hold her and kiss her pain away and a father to make dumb jokes and embarrass her in front of her friends, every single day that she’d needed them— _ because, yes, she was Eliza Hamilton who’d lived through ninety-seven years of heartache, but she was Libby Scott, too, she was Libby and she was fifteen and she _ **_needed_ ** _ them _ —Libby had promised herself that she’d be fine, and she’d waited for Christmas. 

Because they were always here. They always made time to be a family on Christmas. 

They weren’t supposed to do this to her. 

Peggy didn’t respond to Libby this time, pursing her lips and shifting on her feet, and Angelica cast Libby a worried glance. Clenching her fists, Libby realized how that must have sounded and quickly tried to recover the lightheartedness of the situation. She tried to laugh awkwardly, tried to think of something to say. 

“Libby, you okay?” Angelica asked cautiously, and Libby nodded a little too quickly. 

“Fine,” she said. “I’m fine.” 

But something must have looked a little too broken on her face, because then Angelica was stepping forward to pull her into a brief hug. 

“Okay,” she said once she’d pulled back. “What do you say that once we’re done opening presents and frosting cookies, we marathon Christmas movies all day?” 

“You mean the movies where everyone’s white and the plot is literally the exact same thing every single time with a slightly different dreadful Christmas pun plastered on as a title,” Libby responded flatly. 

“Oh, come on, not  _ all _ of them are like that,” Angelica said. 

“The Polar Express isn’t like that!” Peggy said. “That one’s my favorite! We gotta watch that one first, right, Angie? The Polar Express first?” 

“The Polar Express first,” Angelica affirmed, reaching out to ruffle Peggy’s hair. 

Peggy ducked away, darting back over to the cookies. “But we’re decorating all of these first, right? ‘Fore we watch any movies?” At Angelica’s nod, she grinned, plucking a tiny tub of glittery gel icing and a plastic knife from the container of decorating supplies. 

“C’mon,” she said as she turned and scraped icing over one of the cookies. “I’m decorating  _ all _ of the candycane-shaped ones.” 

“Well, then I’m decorating all of the star-shaped ones,” Angelica countered. 

Peggy scrunched up her nose as she glanced over the cookies. “Uh, there’s only two star-shaped ones, so fine,” she said. 

“There’s more in the oven,” Libby said, trying not to roll her eyes at her older sister’s wicked grin. In fact, three-quarters of the second batch of cookies were star-shaped ones, so Peggy had unwittingly landed herself a rather unfortunate deal. 

But Peggy’s mind had already switched topics, and she was now rummaging through the container energetically. Once she’d found what she was looking for, she lifted it triumphantly. “SPRINKLES!” she shouted. “Come on, come on, let’s get decorating already, let’s go, let’s go!” 

“Okay, okay,” Libby said with a laugh as Peggy dragged her and Angelica over to the table and forcefully sat them down, dropping the plate of cookies and the decorating materials in front of them. 

For a brief instant, Libby found it odd that Peggy was so much more excited to decorate cookies than to open gifts. She figured it out in the next second, though. 

This was something that they did together. This was  _ theirs _ . And the attention of her older sisters was something so much more precious to Peggy than the attention of their parents, because the love of their parents wasn’t something Peggy had ever really known. She hadn’t been old enough to create memories of better times, back when their parents weren’t too wrapped up in their business to even remember that they had children. 

Libby could see the thinly veiled desperation in Peggy’s eyes even now as she passed her a jar of sprinkles. 

This tiny, mundane, domestic,  _ loving _ moment meant so much more to her than the presents ever could. Peggy had had enough presents. The girls had always been showered with gifts this time of year; the presents weren’t necessarily special. 

But this kind of moment was. 

“This is gonna be a good Christmas,” Peggy said, and Libby could hear the hope there, the craving. The question hidden in her words. 

Libby’s words stuck in her throat, but she didn’t have to say anything anyway. 

“That’s right,” Angelica affirmed, nodding. Libby squeezed her older sister’s hand under the table, and the three siblings shared a smile. 

Libby Scott was lucky, she decided. Maybe even luckier than Eliza Schuyler had been. 

Because Elizabeth Schuyler had dreamed sometimes, as she cried over her son and then her little sister and then her husband and then everyone else she loved, of having a second chance. A chance to love and be loved without watching it all fall to pieces around her. 

And Libby Scott had been granted exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s o ! ! 
> 
> did you emote a tiny bit because i sure as hell hope you did 
> 
> angst interlaced with fluff = flangst. a beautiful thing that we really need more of. i write literally Nothing but flangst, ever. this is Evidence of that, you're welcome 
> 
> *throws confetti all over everyone* MERRY CHRYSLER


	3. Parker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the third day of Christmas, your authors gave to you a whole shit-ton of Parker/Jemmy fluff.

## Parker

OoOoO

“Merry fucking Christmas!” Parker shouted as he threw open the door to the dorm room he and James shared. “Exams are _over_ , presents have been _bought_ , the tree is _up_ , and if anyone tries to move me from my bed in the next thirty-six hours, I _will_ express my wrath in a lengthy, _incredibly_ angry letter.”

“Well, _damn_ ,” James replied as he looked up from his phone. “And here I thought I’d opened all my mail.”

Parker stared at him for a moment, his tired brain struggling to process what James was implying and how to respond. He settled for a glare. An exhausted glare, but it was vehement nonetheless. “Whatever you’re planning, I’m asking for a thirty-six hour rain check so I can eat, sleep, and allow myself to fucking _relax_. I feel like goddamn _Alexander_ , because I don’t know how he feels on a daily basis but this is _probably fucking it_ , and whatever surprise you have for me can wait so I can eat some fucking mac and cheese and restore my sanity,” he said, collapsing onto his bed with a sigh. And okay, damn, Parker had always been liberal with his swear words, but this was a lot even for him.

“Nope,” James replied. “You can have an hour. Contrary to what you might think, we are _not_ done present shopping, and knowing you, if we procrastinate for _one day_ , that present will _never_ get bought.”

“Are you _kidding_?” Parker whined.

“No.”

“You’re so _mean_.”

“Completely ruthless, I know.”

Parker rolled over. “At least come cuddle with me before you drag me off into the streets to suffer,” he said dramatically. James sighed, as if being asked to snuggle with his boyfriend was some sort of punishment, even though Parker knew for a _fact_ he was fucking _delightful_.

“You are _completely_ ridiculous,” James muttered, burying his face in Parker’s curls.

Parker snorted. “You’ve been saying that forever, darling,” he muttered.

“Yes, well, I haven’t been lying.”

Parker just smiled and closed his eyes, content to lie there, held in his boyfriend’s arms, for as long as… well, for a long time. Forever, maybe. Yeah, forever would be nice. He’d just lie here forever, then.

Or so he _thought_.

James poked him in the side.

Again.

And again.

 _And again_.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Parker Jones, and allow me to remind you that it _won’t fucking work_. Just because you’re cute doesn’t mean you get to get out of doing shit,” he said.

“You think I’m cute?” Parker asked as he rolled over.

“I think you’re an asshole,” James replied, rolling his eyes.

“You called me _cute!”_ Parker had perked up slightly now. ( _Slightly_. He was still fucking exhausted.)

“ _I think you’re an asshole_ ,” James repeated. “An asshole who has _things to do_ today, so you can’t just go to sleep.”

“But I bought all the presents!” Parker insisted. “I made a list, remember? I even fucking _checked it twice_ like some skinny, beardless Santa Claus. We can _sleep_.”

“I know for a _fact_ that you haven’t,” James replied. ”Because we made our lists at the same time, with the _same people on them_ , and I forgot them, too.”

Parker groaned. “Who is it, then?” he asked. “Not Alex, I got him a quill and you got him a journal. We got Peggy their favourite fuzzy socks and that good cocoa mix, right? Laf got that recording of Secret Garden, Hercules got the book with the fancy fashion commentary, Jon got watercolours, Angelica got a nice pen, Libby got a ‘Number-One-Teacher’ mug, Rosaline got makeup brushes, Doddie got that beanie, and Daniel those stupid fucking glasses.”

“Go on.”

“The girls all got tickets to the new Fantastic Beasts movie,” Parker continued, “My mom got that picture of all five of us, and your dad…”

James bit his lip.

“How the _fuck_ ,” Parker said, “Did we forget your _dad_?”

James shrugged.

“He’s _your dad_!”

“Yes,” James conceded, “And you’ve practically _lived_ at my house since sophomore year. Don’t pin this all on me. We’re going to get him a present. _Us_. Not just me.”

Parker made a sound that was somewhere between a dying cat and a particularly put-off bull moose.

“Go on. Get up, Parker,” James said, poking his boyfriend again. “We’re going shopping and you’re not getting out of it and we might as well just go now because the sooner we get it done, the sooner you can sleep, so _stop complaining_ and let’s _go already_.”

A pause.

A sigh.

Another longer, heavier, far more theatrical sigh.

“Parker,” James started.

“O _kay_ , okay, _fine_ ,” Parker groaned, and really, he was being way too fucking dramatic about all this. “...but you said I could have an hour.”

“Parker,” James said again.

“One hour!” Parker pleaded, pulling out his smartphone and shoving it into James’ face. “Look, it’s—it’s 3:42 p.m., see? So we’ll cuddle until 4:42 p.m. exactly. I’ll even set an alarm! _Please_ , Jemmy?”

James huffed. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Fine. _One hour_ ,” he conceded at last, and god, from the look on Parker’s face you’d have thought he’d just won the lottery.

“James Matthews, you are a _god among men_ ,” he enthused, curling up so he could bury his face in James’ shoulder and just _relax_.

By God, how he needed this.

“Are you okay?” James asked quietly, running his fingers through Parker’s hair. Parker nodded against his shoulder. “You just seem more worn out than usual. I'm worried about you, Parks.”

“Don't be,” Parker muttered. “It's nothing. Just had my American History exam today, you know how those get me. I'm fine, Jemmy.”

James hummed and kissed Parker’s forehead. “You can't sleep,” he reminded him.

“I most definitely _can._ I have an hour. That's plenty of time,” Parker protested.

“You'll be even crankier when you wake up,” James pointed out.

“For one,” Parker replied, glaring up at James that he knew was probably the _opposite_ of intimidating, “I do not get ‘cranky’. For two, I'm exhausted. For three, I'm about to have to go face the big, wide world of _people._ People who will probably recognize me, like always. And do you know what those people are going to do, Jemmy? What they _always_ do. They're going to want to ask questions or argue or take a picture or something, and honestly? If someone tried that right now, I'd beat them with my cane. So, please, let me nap.”

James huffed, but Parker knew he'd gotten through to him. “I'm waking you up fifteen minutes before the hour is over so you don't try and eat innocent civilians,” he said dryly. “And I know for a fact, you most _definitely_ get cranky.”

 

OoOoO

 

James did, in fact, wake Parker up fifteen minutes early, much to Parker’s dismay.

“ _Jemmy_ ,” he groaned. “It hasn’t been an hour yet…”

“I’m aware of that, and we are _both_ aware of the fact that I said I’d wake you up fifteen minutes before we had to go. I let you sleep, Parker. Now _we are buying that present_.”

Parker decided he’d probably done enough complaining, and James’ tone sounded irritated and bordering on absolutely fucking exasperated which was usually Parker’s cue to stop, so he wisely decided to shut up.

“Here,” James said once he’d gotten Parker to get up off the couch and sit at the table. He slid a bowl of noodles across the table, and Parker immediately brightened.

“You made me ramen!” Parker practically squealed. James rolled his eyes and sat down with his own bowl.

“I made _us_ ramen,” he corrected. “Now eat it. You’ve got”—he glanced up at the clock on the wall—“eleven minutes to eat, get ready, and get in the car.”

Parker shrugged. “I am ready,” he said.

James levelled him with a look.

“Okay, fine, my hair’s a mess and I’m in sweatpants but I don’t particularly care,” he said. “Look, we’re just going to, like, Walmart or some shit, right? Everyone at Walmart has seen _far worse_ than me in sweatpants.”

“You could at least _try_ to look pre—”

“ _Walmart_ , Jemmy! I’m presentable _enough_ ,” Parker groaned.

James rolled his eyes. “You’re going to make yourself look better than _that_.”

Parker scowled.

“Okay!” he said finally, standing up abruptly and walking over to drop his empty bowl into the sink. “I’m done. Now. There’s a present to buy, and after that, a nap to take, a boyfriend to fuck—”

_“Parker!”_

“Let’s go, Jemmy, let’s get this over with,” Parker said, already pulling on his coat. “To Wally World we go...”

He was honestly, actually trying to sound somewhat excited about this. In truth, he was just excited for it to be _over_. Then he could finally fucking _sleep_. And maybe do a few things besides sleeping, if Jemmy was up for it.  

“We're not going to _Walmart_ , Parker.”

“And, if I may ask, why the fuck not?” Parker responded. “Walmart has everything, Jem. _Everything_. We can definitely get a good present for your dad that makes it look like we tried from Walmart.”

“Because Walmart is shit, Parker. Now put some pants on. We can get pad-Thai or something. It'll be fun,” James insisted.

“Not as fun as what we could do in bed after—”

“Oh my _god_.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Parker whined, “Fine. I’m getting ready.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” James replied with a roll of his eyes.

Parker tuck out his tongue before opening his hideously small closet and pulling out a pair of grey jeans that matched his purple shirt enough that it could be mistaken for “put together”. He threw his hair up, tugged a pair of converse on over his fuzzy socks, and put on his magenta hoodie.

He stared at the drawer of his desk for a moment, made sure James wasn’t looking, and then opened the drawer and took the little velvet box and shoved it in his pocket.

“I’m ready,” he said. “Time to face the hordes.”

James stared at him. “You’re going to freeze to death!” he said.

Parker dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “I’ll be fine, Jemmy,” he maintained.

James huffed and shoved his glasses up his nose. “When you complain about being cold, I’m _not_ giving you my coat,” he replied haughtily.

“Whatever you say, Jem,” Parker said before grabbing his cane and ruffling his boyfriend’s hair. James had started growing it out over the summer, and Parker _loved it_.

“If my hair’s a mess—”

“Then you have full permission to whack me with my own cane,” Parker said, opening the door. “Now let’s _go_. The faster we get this over with, the faster we can get back to bed.”

 

OoOoO

 

Parker would never, _never_ admit it, but he was glad James had forced them to go somewhere other than Walmart, if only because watching James walk along the snowy streets, bundled up like an Eskimo was the absolute _cutest shit he’d ever seen_.

“ _Are you even listening to me_?” James asked, glaring up at Parker from beneath his scarf.

“What?” Parker asked, shaking off the overwhelming urge to pin his boyfriend against the display window of the store they were standing in front of and kiss him senseless. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Something about a new pair of boots? Or something?”

James rolled his eyes. “ _Yes_ , a new pair of boots ‘or something’. I swear, I could be telling you they’re putting Hitler’s face on Mount Rushmore and you’d just _blink at me_ ,” he huffed.

“I listen to you, most of the time!” Parker protested.

“ _Sure_.”

“ _I do_!”

James crossed his arms and turned away from Parker.

“C’mon, Jemmy, darling, I know you’re not _actually_ mad at me,” Parker insisted.

“You do, huh? And how do you know that?” James countered, but Parker could already hear the exasperated grin on his face.

“Because if you got mad at me every time I acted like an asshole you’d _always_ be mad at me, and I have _plenty_ of proof that that is _not_ the case,” Parker said.

James spun around and tried to scowl at Parker, but his actions were undermined by the smile on his face. “I hate you,” he snapped.

“No you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” James finally conceded, and Parker bent over press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“So, boots?” he finally asked, and was awarded by a short laugh from his boyfriend.

“Boots,” James agreed before dragging Parker farther into the cold.

 

OoOoO

 

This was it, Parker was sure of it. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. James was standing a few feet in front of him, his face illuminated by the Christmas lights hanging all around and slightly red from cold as he gazed into a shop window.

He was beautiful. He was perfect.

This was it.

Parker coughed into his hand, decidedly in the least discreet way possible, but then again Parker didn’t have a subtle bone in his body. James turned to face him, his eyes glowing even as his features twisted into an odd mix of exasperation and concern. “Yes?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow. Parker felt his heart flip.

 _This was it_.

If this went as planned, it’d be a night they told their grandchildren stories about.

Parker was somehow both ecstatic and terrified.

He placed his cane to lean against the shop, wincing slightly as he got down on one knee.

**_This was it._**

Parker saw the exact moment James realised what was happening, the way his eyes widened in utter shock, and decided it was probably his favourite moment of all time.

He cleared his throat and pulled the little velvet box out of his coat pocket. “James Matthews,” he began, “I’m not going to lie—I’m extremely nervous about this. I think that I know how you’re going to respond, but I can’t _know_ for certain, you know?” He chuckled nervously, barely refraining from fidgeting with the box. His knee was going stiff, he was sure of it, but there would be time for that later.

“You’ve always been the person closest to me,” he began anew. “You make me feel like I’m _worth_ something, like I’m not totally useless. You value me for who I am, not who I used to be. You make me believe that I can actually face the world and come out victorious.

“You are my anchor, my guiding light. Without you there by my side, I would have given up a long time ago. You make me feel secure, like, no matter how hard things get, I always have someplace to return to, at the end of the day.” He bit his lip, tension in his body.

“I want to make you feel the same way, because I’ll be damned if you’re not the smartest, kindest, and most compassionate person I’ve ever known—in both lifetimes, I might add. One of you, in any incarnation, is worth more than the rest of humanity combined. You deserve the world, and I want to spend the rest of my life giving it to you.” Parker swallowed. “I love you something ridiculous. With that said, James Matthews, will you make me the happiest man on Earth and marry me?”

James inhaled sharply, then, before Parker could process what was happening, he was being dragged up by his boyfriend. Arms were wrapping themselves around his waist as James captured Parker’s lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

“Yes,” James breathed when they finally broke apart. “Of course I’ll marry you, you absolute dork.” One of James’ hands flew up to Parker’s mouth, gently tracing the outline of his lips. “I love you something ridiculous too, you know,” he confessed with a fond smile, echoing Parker’s own words.

Parker let out a relieved laugh, leaning over to press another kiss to James’ lips as he slipped the ring onto the other man’s finger. He rested his forehead against James’. “We’re getting married,” he whispered.

“So it would seem,” James agreed with a wide grin.

“You and me, Jemmy,” Parker said, pulling James closer.

James looked up at Parker with a odd sort of glimmer in his eye. “You and me,” he echoed. “Just like always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! Share the love, and don't forget to smile :)


	4. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas and slow dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h e r e w e g o
> 
> Jon, age 28

##  Jon 

OoOoO 

Their Christmas that year was soft, it was slow, it was sweet. It was nothing like either Jon or Alexander, really, and perhaps that was what made it so special. It was them, but quieter; it was Jon, but a little too busy cuddling Alexander to be moving very fast; it was Alexander, but a little too busy staring at Jon to talk very much. 

They’d opened one another’s presents hours ago—or maybe it hadn’t been hours ago, but the moments had crawled by lazily, one dripping slowly into the next like molasses, so it felt as though hours had passed. 

Dinner was gone; the scraps and dirty dishes that remained of it were lying on the table, forgotten. 

It was only Jon and Alexander, holding one another on the couch, nestled among the blankets and throw pillows while a Christmas movie that neither was watching played quietly in the background. 

Their Christmas that year was gentle, too. The kisses and touches they shared were not hungry and desperate, nor were they fast and hot and impassioned. They were tender. Loving. 

Soft, slow, and sweet. 

The way they never had a chance to be before.

“Alex?” Jon said softly, as though trying not to ruin the moment.

Alex hummed absentmindedly, most of his focus on a small patch of skin on Jon’s neck.

“Did you ever think we would end up here?” Jon asked.

Alex’s movements stilled. He lifted up his head, meeting Jon’s gaze. “What do you mean?” he inquired in bewilderment. “Here as in—” he gestured at the couch.

Jon shook his head with a small grin. “Not exactly, although that works too,” he admitted, lowering his eyes. “Here as in together once again, in a new America, an improved America, where we don’t have to hide who we are.”

When he glanced up again, Alex had that facial expression that said that he was two seconds away from talking Jon’s ear off. “I would hardly say that we are  _ completely _ free,” he objected. “On a weekly basis, if not a daily one, our very rights are being questi—”

“Shush, my dear Hamilton,” Jon said, not unkindly. “We aren’t facing a death sentence just for sleeping together.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Neither did we before. In case you’ve forgotten, a lot of other soldiers had been forced to share lodging, often sleeping arrangements as well, which led to—”

“Honestly, I’d say you are being deliberately obtuse,” Jon replied, “but I happen to know how you can get.”

“What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?” Alex demanded.

Jon sighed. “You’re a little extra, is all. Anyway,” he continued when he saw that Alex opened his mouth to make a witty retort, “I  meant sleeping together in the biblical sense. Having sex. Making the beast with two backs,” Jon clarified. “Making feet for children’s stocki—”

Alex scoffed. “I don’t think the last one applies to us,” he said dubiously.

Jon glared at Alexander for a moment but wasn’t able to keep up the act. The glower slipped off his face quickly, melting into an exasperated but no less loving smile as he kissed Alexander again.

God, he’d never get tired of that.

“We’re  _ here _ , Alexander,” he said slowly. “Here, together, not a secret. You and me and this whole world. It’s… beyond what I ever could’ve dreamed, and we get to see it, get to live in it, get to have each other.”

Alexander smiled, his eyes lighting up under the Christmas lights. “Look around, look around,” he began, and Jon rolled his eyes, doing his best not to laugh at Alexander’s antics. “At how lucky we are to be alive right now.”

“I’m trying to be introspective and sappy here, and you go and quote your own musical,” Jon complained, still grinning ear to ear.

Alexander winked at him, and Jon immediately felt as if he’d gotten himself in  _ way _ over his head. “You wanna be sappy, huh?” Alexander asked, jumping to his feet and tugging Jon up with him. “Well then, allow me to happily provide.”

Jon stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what  _ exactly _ his boyfriend had planned, as Alexander fiddled with a few knobs on their old, beat up radio.

For some reason he’d never disclosed, Alexander had this  _ thing _ for Christmas music. The  _ moment  _ Thanksgiving was over—or maybe even before then, for as long as he could get away with—Alexander was playing Christmas music. Needless to say, Jon wasn’t exactly surprised to hear Frank Sinatra crooning through radio a moment later.

He  _ was  _ surprised, however, when Alex took Jon by the hand and pulled him to the middle of the living room.

“Alex,” Jon inquired skeptically, “What are you doing?”

“I’m seeing if Jon Latham has all the same moves that John Laurens did,” Alexander replied cheekily, grinning up at Jon as he wrapped his arms around Jon’s neck.

Jon felt himself blush, even as he grabbed Alex around the waist. “I’m not good at this,” he warned. “You should ask my prom date, his feet were black and blue for  _ weeks _ , and I don’t want to put you through that pain—” 

“ _ Shush _ ,” Alexander interrupted, and the irony of  _ Alexander Hamilton, _ of all people, telling Jon to ‘shush’ was enough to pull a smile onto Jon’s face. “Dance with me.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea—”

“Please?” Alexander asked, peering up at Jon with those fucking  _ massive _ eyes and  _ fuck it _ .

Jon had never been good at saying no to Alex.

“ _ Fine _ ,” he relented, beginning to shuffle in an awkward little circle, “But only because it’s Christmas.”

“And because you love me,” Alexander added cheekily.

Jon huffed. “ _ Yes _ ,” he added, “Because it’s Christmas and I love you.”

The look on Alexander’s face was worth, well,  _ everything _ .

The two of them continued to spin around the living room, Alex’s head coming to rest on Jon’s shoulder. “See?” he asked, “You’re not bad.”

“I’m shuffling in a circle, sweetheart,” Jon pointed out, “I’d hoped I could do that without mutilating your feet.”

“You're doing fine,” Alex assured his boyfriend. “C’mon, spin me.”

“What?” Jon asked, confusion written all over his face.

“You know, the spin move,” Alexander explained.

“Wait!” Jon argued, “Why aren’t  _ you _ leading if you’re the one having all these great ideas?”

“Because you’re taller,” Alexander explained, “Now  _ c’mon _ ! Just— _ swoosh _ —spin! It’s not hard!”

Jon rolled his eyes and spun Alexander best he could.

It wasn’t  _ great _ , but he didn’t drop Alexander, so that was a plus.

The two of them stood there, in the middle of the living room, Alexander leaning on Jon with the force of his laughter. “Okay, okay, so you’re not as good as you were,” Alex admitted between fits of giggles.

“Nah shit, Sherlock,” Jon replied, tightening his grip on Alexander, “I didn’t go to gentleman school this time, you ass. I went to public school in Michigan!”

“Still, shouldn’t you remember?”

“Maybe the theory, yeah, although I didn’t pay all that much attention, honestly, a lot of it was ingrained into my body in automatic movements,” Jon admitted, even as he pulled Alex closer to him, swaying softly.

Alexander slipped back into the easy quiet, seemingly content to rest on Jon and breathe in the sweet, cinnamon-scented air. 

They swayed together for a while, holding one another. It was soft, it was slow, it was sweet. 

“No,” he whispered finally. 

“What?” Jon asked, pulling back just a bit to look Alexander in the eyes. Those magnificent, intelligent eyes, gleaming in the glow of the Christmas lights. 

“No, I never thought we’d end up here,” Alex explained, leaning forward to pull Jon in for another kiss. Soft, slow, and sweet. 

They settled back into their gentle swaying, and Jon smiled as Alex finished, “But I’m glad we did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry!! christmas!!


	5. Daniel and Doddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as Cady would say... *clears throat*
> 
> b a b s
> 
> that sums it up, i think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daniel and Doddie, age 29

## Daniel and Doddie

OoOoO

“Aaron!” Doddie shouted from the kids’ room. “You’re on diaper duty, I’ve gotta feed Aleki!”

He groaned, rolling over and pulling a pillow over his head. Blearily, he called, “Why couldn’t you…?”

“When did you _magically_ grow breasts, Aaron?” Doddie shouted back, and he could practically _hear_ her eye-roll. Daniel rolled his own eyes in return and crawled out of bed.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled dryly, rubbing his eyes.

“Christmas isn’t until tomorrow,” Theodosia reminded him, poking her head out of the babies’ room.

Daniel glared at her before shuffling over to Tiana’s bed and picking up the crying infant. Tiana, always a little easier to please than her twin brother, quieted down almost as soon as he picked her up. He began bouncing her to keep her calm—he knew she liked that—as he carried her over and laid her on the changing table.

Once that unpleasant task was finished, he disposed of the dirty diaper, quickly washed his hands, and lifted Tiana off the table, balancing her on his right hip.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, reaching out with his left index finger and tapping her right on the nose. “You ready for your first Christmas?”

She gurgled happily in response, and Daniel couldn’t help the grin that split his face in two.

Doddie was seated on the other side of the room by the window as she fed Aleki, gazing out at the light snow that had begun to fall sometime in the night. The flakes weren’t falling very hard or very fast, and they surely wouldn’t stick, but the aesthetic was nice.

As he caressed his daughter’s fine, baby-soft hair with one hand, Daniel gazed at the love of his lives as she fed their son.

In that moment, it didn’t matter that Doddie’s hair looked the same as it did when she’d rolled out of bed earlier that morning, or that she was still in her sweats because Daniel swore that he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

He let that moment last for just a little longer, trying to hold onto it as long as he could, trying to memorize every detail of the image in front of him before he finally broke the silence.

“What’s Tiana wearing today?” he asked softly.

“Hm?” Doddie glanced his way. “Oh, her outfit’s sitting on top of the babies’ dresser. Aleki’s is in the top drawer.”

Daniel hummed his acknowledgment as he walked over to grab Tiana’s outfit. The twins were getting their pictures done professionally today, at Doddie’s insistence. “Isn’t this bow kind of big?” he asked, holding the offending object in front of him. “I want to be able to see my daughter’s face in these pictures.”

“It’s supposed to go _on top of her head_ , Daniel,” Doddie said dryly. “You’ll be able to see her face just fine.”

“On top of her head,” Daniel repeated. “...and how, exactly, are you planning to get it to stay there? She doesn’t have that much hair, in case you didn’t notice.”

“We’ll use toothpaste or something to stick it on,” Doddie said briskly. “Listen, it’s cute, okay? It’s got little itty bitty polka-dots on it, see, and they match the polka-dots on Aleki’s white vest—”

“Aleki has a polka-dotted vest?” Daniel deadpanned, decidedly ignoring the comment about the toothpaste because that was _not_ happening on his watch.

“Uh, yeah? Daniel, we picked out these outfits _together_ ,” Doddie said.

“He does _not_ have a—oh my god it’s lined with faux fur,” Daniel said as he opened the drawer and pulled out said vest, which was indeed patterned with pale purple polka-dots and lined with faux fur.

“It’s going to be adorable on him,” Doddie practically squealed.

Daniel sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, fine. So they’re… okay. So, purple and white? That’s our color scheme?”

“ _Lavender_ ,” Doddie clarified, and Daniel had to hold back an eye-roll. “Lavender and white. Aaron, we literally picked these outfits together two weeks ago.”

“Did we really?” he mumbled absently, setting aside Aleki’s tiny pair of khaki pants in favor of holding up Tiana’s light purple dress. The thing was covered in frills. God, how had he agreed to this? And why couldn’t he remember it, for that matter? He was turning into Alexander on the week before college finals. (And that mess was _not_ something that anyone wanted to see.)

Aleki let out a little cry, and Daniel turned back around, his heart fluttering a little at the sight of Doddie gently shushing him and cuddling him closer. Tiana reached up with her chubby little hand and grabbed at Daniel’s nose, burbling at him happily.

“You’re much more of a morning person than your brother, aren’t you?” Daniel said, pressing a chaste kiss to his baby girl’s forehead. “Now, let’s get you dressed and ready.”

He laid Tiana on the carpet and unbuttoned her onesie before pulling it off of her. She giggled, kicking up her feet and grabbing at her toes in excitement.

Daniel held up the dress again, narrowing his eyes. “Doddie, this thing doesn’t have long sleeves.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, laying a towel over her shoulder to burp Aleki, having finished feeding him.

“And it’s snowing outside,” Daniel finished, his tone saying something along the lines of, _Are you fucking kidding me?_

A sigh. “Her sweater’s hanging in the closet.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows.

He almost didn’t even want to see it.

He slipped Tiana into the puffy purple dress, and—yeah, okay, fine, that was honestly pretty adorable. He had to admit it, his wife had good taste in baby dresses. He tried not to grin like an idiot at the way Tiana curiously explored the frilly fabric, picking at it and grabbing it tightly in her little fists, talking and burbling at him constantly as she did so.

Daniel stood up and made his way over to the closet, pulling open one of the doors and—

“You want her to wear a _cotton ball?”_ he asked disbelievingly upon seeing the sweater.

“It’s not a cotton ball. Listen, it’ll keep her warm,” Doddie insisted. “And it’s really cute, okay? All fluffy and white—she’ll look like a tiny snowball! And might I reiterate, _you agreed to this when we went shopping for the outfits!”_

…Daniel decided it was probably not the best course of action to continue debating the babies’ outfits.

OoOoO

The snow was even more beautiful while they were out together in it.

Daniel and Doddie were taking turns pushing the twins’ double stroller, and the babies, tightly bundled up in their hats and scarves and little socks and snow boots, were giggling and squealing and talking to each other, grabbing at snowflakes and making little noises only they could understand.

They’d decided to take the scenic walk through the city rather than driving to the photographer. It was gorgeous out, a dazzling, cold, clear blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, the sun shining brightly down on a city flecked with snowflakes.

There were Christmas lights everywhere—on the streetlamps, hanging from roofs, blinking in store windows. Doddie kept grabbing Daniel’s sleeve and pointing out decorations that she particularly liked.

Every once in awhile, though, she’d just quiet down, sigh, and hold onto his arm, smiling contentedly.

“We’re a family again,” she said softly as they arrived at the photographer’s, leaning over to press her lips close to his ear. “Just like the first time.”

Daniel reached for her hand and squeezed it gently in response.

He thought for just a moment of his little Theodosia, the daughter he’d lost too soon, and tried to shake off the pang that struck his heart.

He didn’t need to think about that. Not right now. That was the past.

He was Daniel Aaron Barnes, he was happily married to his Doddie, _his Theodosia_ , and they had two precious children whom they loved dearly.

What more could he possibly ask for?

“Remind me why we’re doing baby pictures on Christmas Eve?” he asked, looking over to see Doddie, beaming as snowflakes clung momentarily to her dark hair.

“ _Because_ ,” she said, her tone making it sound as though the answer was obvious. “It’s their _first Christmas!_ It’s _our_ first Christmas as a family together!”

“Then why are we spending it getting expensive pictures made in frilly, _freezing_ outfits instead of sitting on the couch drinking cocoa and watching _Frosty the Snowman_?” Daniel asked.

“They are not ‘freezing outfits’!” Doddie insisted, slapping his shoulder playfully. “Tiana literally looks like a cotton ball in that sweater. _She’s warm_ . And Aleki’s vest is lined with fur! And _anyway_ , we’re saving the cocoa and Christmas movies for _tomorrow_.”

“Tomorrow we’re going to your mom’s house, Theodosia,” Daniel said.

“There is _nothing_ stopping us from watching Frosty and drinking cocoa at my mother’s house,” Doddie pointed out.

“Yeah, except for your _mother_ ,” Daniel reminded her, and Doddie rolled her eyes. She knew how awkward her family was for Daniel. They’d all but panicked when they’d learned she was dating a reincarnate, especially one such as controversial as _Aaron Burr_. Their whole first meeting had been cold, stiff, more like a corpse than a family gathering.

Her mother’s nit-picking didn’t help matters much. Daniel liked order, yes, but he liked _his_ order.

“She’s going to have the whole thing planned down to the _second_ , especially since she’s finally got us all together.”

“Wow, so she’s over-prepared and values her family?” Doddie teased, grinning up at Daniel. “Sounds familiar, but I can’t really put my finger on it…”

Daniel rolled his eyes at his wife. “I just don’t see the point in doing this _now_ ,” he explained.

Doddie huffed. “Holiday sale,” she said finally. “Holiday sale and this was the only day I could get an appointment. Is it optimal? No. But look at our _kids_ , Aaron! Look! We’re out, together, as a _family_ , and it’s _snowing_ , and we’re _home_. It’s great, isn’t it?”

Daniel couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. “Yeah,” he admitted, “Yeah, it’s pretty great.”

OoOoO

Tiana had a bow on her head. Aleki was eating wrapping paper. Daniel looked like the only thing keeping him going was sheer _will_. Miscellaneous cousins and uncles and aunts sprawled out on the couches, most playing with children of their own or drinking eggnog and talking amongst themselves.

And Doddie was standing in the doorway, taking long sips of her own drink, content to simply enjoy the scene in front of her.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” her father said, leaning against the opposite door frame.

Doddie grinned. “He needed this,” she muttered. “He tried to act like he didn’t, but he did.”

“He’s a lot like your mom.”

Doddie nearly snorted her eggnog. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” she mumbled.

Her dad laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you smile so much,” he said.

Doddie rubbed her neck. She knew her parents felt guilty for the past, for how they’d dismissed her as a teenager and how they’d rebuffed her husband at first, but Doddie didn’t _get_ it. Maybe it came with having lived before, maybe it came with seeing how dwelling on the past had eaten away at the person she loved, but Doddie didn’t understand how people could beat themselves up over things that had— mostly—been forgiven and forgotten.

Theodosia’s father was looking at her, expecting an answer. “I love them,” she replied finally. “They’re everything I didn’t even know I was missing.”

“That’s kids for you,” her father agreed. “Although, I’ll admit, having this conversation with my youngest daughter isn’t doing much except making me feel old.”

Doddie snorted and rolled her eyes, not expecting her dad to say much else, when he added, “And _proud_.”

Doddie turned to stare at him.

Yeah, she hadn’t been expecting _that_.

“You’re a wonderful mother and a loving wife, and you’re doing a beautiful job raising a happy family, but that’s not even the whole of it. You’re an exceptional young lady all on your own, and I don’t know how I spent so many years missing that,” he continued, reaching out with his thumb to rub a tear that Doddie didn’t remember crying from her cheek. “My little Theodosia,” he muttered, “All grown up.”

Doddie looked out at her family. Her children, giggling at their father’s feet. Her brother had his arms around Daniel’s neck as Daniel laughed.

Theodosia Barnes rested her head against her father’s chest and smiled.

She wouldn’t trade this for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w o w emotions are Everywhere and i don't know what to do
> 
> (note: i've just realised that Aleki is the original name of Alex the lion in Madagascar, but it's Too Late Now and Cady would Kill Me, so... here we Are)


	6. George

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, it's time for *dramatic drum roll* GEORGE WILLIAM!

"Honey, can you do me a solid?” George heard his wife’s voice from upstairs.

George stepped away from the onions he had been cutting. “Yes?” he called.

”Can you stir the potatoes?” Rebecca requested. “I’d do it, but I’m kind of in the middle of something…” she trailed off, and George heard a distant thud coming from somewhere near their bedroom.

George barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “Yes, I know. It’s hardly the first time that I’ve made a Christmas dinner.”

“I’m just saying.” Was it only George’s imagination, or could he actually hear a smirk in Rebecca’s voice? “The last time I left you and the kids to your own devices, I came home to a broken oven.”

This time, George did roll his eyes. “That was once, and it was over ten years ago, Becca. Are you ever going to stop bringing it up?”

They were preparing their Christmas party. George had wanted to spend the day with just the two of them. He was, as a rule, against public celebrations—God knew he’s had enough of them the last time around, and if he never had to hold a public speech again, it would still be too soon—but Rebecca had insisted, which was how George had found himself in the kitchen, preparing the funeral potatoes while Rebecca was putting up the last decorations around the house. At least, he thought with consolation, it would only be himself

“I don’t know,” Rebecca said as she emerged from the hallway. She leaned casually against the fridge, crossing her arms as she watched George cook. “Are you ever going to stop making fun of me for cutting myself on an Ipren?”

“Never, dear,” George teased. He took out the ladle, making sure to let all the liquid run down before putting it on the tabletop. He turned to his wife. “When are the kids getting here?”

Rebecca smiled. “Lya said that she’s running late. Abby should be here any moment, though. She texted me from Philly. Jeremy’s with her.”

George frowned. “I wasn’t aware that things were that serious between them.” He phrased it like something between a statement and a question, neither nor yet both at the same time.

Rebecca shrugged. “Neither did I, but I like Jer. She’s nice.” She finally pushed herself off the fridge and leaned in, placing a light kiss on George’s lips. “A bit adventurous, but then again”—she winked—”that would have been like the kettle calling the pot black, wouldn’t it?”

This was part of what George loved about Rebecca. She was wild and relentless and passionate and intense and exasperating, all at once. Rebecca William was an experience. She was burning bright, like a flame, unlike any woman George had ever met—except maybe one, but that was a long time ago, even before Martha, and what was buried in the past should stay that way. As it was, George had only known her for the briefest of moments, even if those moments had been something else.

Rebecca was no Martha, sure, but George didn’t love her any less for it. George knew that he wasn’t simply trying to replace Martha. Rebecca was different, and it was a good thing. She was her own person, and George loved her all the more for it.

For his part, George didn’t want to be chained to his past life, to the choices he had made and the paths he had followed. Yes, he had once been George Washington, the first president of the oldest democracy in the world, but that should not determine his choices indefinitely. He wanted to be able to love and marry whomever he wanted, without being criticized from every direction possible about how he should follow traditions. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about their country—he did, very much—but he didn’t want to be looked upon with judgment just because he wasn’t involved in politics anymore, just because he hadn’t done anything to prevent Donald Trump from being elected (like he could have done anything about it regardless—in case everyone had forgotten, America was a democracy, and one man’s voice couldn’t sway the entire nation, even if said voice had been George Washington).

George hadn’t been the one to elect Trump—the people had.

George’s morose train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He started, and saw his wife stifle a grin. “I’ll get it,” Becca said, before turning on the spot and making for the door. “Abby!” George heard her exclaim. “How good to see you! And Jeremy! How have you been?”

George let his wife’s chatter wash over him like petrichor over a meadow after rain. His body relaxed almost instinctively, even though he hadn’t noticed when it had tensed up—Becca had a way with words. It also gave him a respite before everything began in full. Becca knew that he needed it, and George wouldn’t be surprised if she had deliberately left him alone for a moment, rather than sent him out to greet Abby and Jeremy.

Eventually, they all came inside. George shivered as Jer closed the door behind her. Even after all these years, even the slightest cold breeze brought memories of Valley Forge to the surface. As a result, George, while no longer outright despising the cold as he knew Alex was wont to do, wasn't exactly fond of temperatures below thirty.

Rebecca called him out into the foyer, and George was soon dragged into a discussion about the many, many faults in the American school system. Abby was hoping to run for office in the local government, and she was taking every opportunity to expound upon her future policies with anyone who cared to listen.

George shook his head. His time in the legislature—or any position in the government, for that matter—was long past. Which was actually part of what George wanted to discuss with his family. He was not open about his past, that was true, but he felt that his family deserved to know the truth.

He would be lying if he said that he wasn’t nervous.

When Lya arrived, there we greetings and hugs and exchanges of gossip, before they eventually sat down to eat.

George was fidgeting with his utensils throughout the entire meal—a nervous tick left over from his past life that he had never quite been able to get rid of.

Rebecca, bless her heart, noticed, because of course she did. George has been her husband for well over three decades—it had been silly of him to assume that she hadn’t learned some of his mannerisms by now.

“What's the matter?” she whispered quietly, so that none of the children would overhear.

George shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it, not right now.

“Hey”—Rebecca grabbed George’s hand under the table—”you know that you can talk to me, right?”

George swallowed. “Yes, I know. Trust me, it’s nothing that you can help me with.” You’ll find out soon enough anyway.

 

All too soon, everyone had eaten their fill and were groaning about how they were never going to stand up and could someone kill them now please?

As Rebecca stood up to begin clearing away the plates, George put a hand on her arm to stay her. Curious, she sat down again, shooting him a bewildered look.

The motion drew everyone’s attention to the couple. Everyone, one by one, paused in their conversations, turning to look at George.

George steeled himself. “I need to say something,” he said loudly. He cleared his throat. How had he decided to say it? Oh, yes, bluntness. He crossed his fingers that what had worked for Alexander would work for him as well. “I’m a reincarnate. I used to be George Washington.”

A beat of absolute silence.

Jer’s eyebrows were raised slightly in a lofty expression. “No, you’re not,” she countered.

Abby’s head snapped around. “Jer!”

“There’s no way. He’s joking, Abby,” she assured her partner teasingly. “You fell for it.”

Abby turned toward him then, uncertainty clouding her expression. “Are you?” she asked softly. “Are you joking? You’re...” She shook her head in disbelief. “You are, aren’t you?”

George had expected this. Of course he had. He’d expected them to react with disbelief, to assume he wasn’t being serious. He’d never been the type to pull jokes like this, but that probably would have been his knee-jerk reaction, too, had he been in their situation. It wasn’t exactly anything normal, anything one discussed, and the sheer odds of it being true were astronomical, to say the least.

He slowly shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I’m not joking.” Then, for good measure, he added, “I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

At his words, Abby’s eyes clouded with some sort of emotion George couldn’t quite place. It filled him with unease.

“And yet you never told us,” Lya spoke up now. “You’ve known since you were nineteen, and you never told us.”

And George had expected this, too. He had rehearsed this so many times, prepared his responses so that he could be sure he got it right. He was pretty sure that his own mirror could recite it by heart by now. “You’re my family. All of you, you’re my whole world; you’re everything to me. I used to be George Washington, but in this life, I am George William with a wife named Rebecca and two beautiful daughters. I never wanted that to change—I never wanted you to see me as anything but your father—just because you found out I was a reincarnate. That’s why I waited so long to tell you all. I’m sorry if I hurt any of you.”

He realized as he finished speaking that Rebecca still hadn’t said a word.

“Rebecca?” he asked, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. Talk to me, passed unspoken between them.

Rebecca’s hands were clenched into fists. She took a calming breath. “I’m sorry, love. I just—I need—I’ll be back,” she said abruptly, before standing up and leaving the kitchen.

Four pairs of eyes followed her, before three of them snapped back to George, who averted his eyes. He fought the urge to squirm. How come he could face down the entire British army, yet when his family was staring him down, he couldn’t even look at them?

“I have a question,” Lya eventually said into the silence. George forced himself to meet his daughter’s eyes. They weren’t cold, as he had almost expected them to be; no, they were expectant. “Why didn't you tell us before?”

George squared his shoulders. “Honestly?”

“That would be appreciated,” Lya drawled sarcastically, resulting in a scowl from her sister.

“I wasn't ready,” George confessed. “I was afraid of how you'd react, whether you'd believe me”—it was Lya’s turn to glare at her sister—”and, if you did, whether you'd still see me as the same person. I wasn't sure whether I'd be able to stand blind idolatry, not from you of all people.” He sighed, lacing together his fingers. “I'm afraid that most reincarnates I know haven't had the most positive reaction when they came out.”

Jer, hitherto silent, now furrowed her brows. “Most reincarnates…?” she trailed off, before realization seemed to hit her. “You're friends with Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson,” she breathed.

A small smile danced on George's lips. It just figured, didn't it, that Jer was a fan of Hamilton.

“I wouldn't exactly call us friends,” George hedged, because hell itself would freeze over before he would call any incarnation of Thomas Jefferson his friend again, “but yes. And Jefferson prefers Parker these days,” he added somewhat reprovingly. “Parker… let's just say that he doesn't always cope with his memories in a good way, and having people invade his privacy and tell him how he should behave and think and what he should do isn't exactly helping. I didn't want that, not even from you.” A loaded pause. “Especially from you.”

There was another round of silence, though this one was less oppressive than the last.

“Well,” Abby said at length, “the way I see it, this doesn’t change who you are right now.” She bit her lip, before continuing. “I’ll admit that my perception of you has changed with this, but you haven’t. Probably. I’m hoping.”

“No, I haven’t,” George hurried to assure her.

Abby shrugged. “Then you’re still my dad.”

George let out a breath he hadn't realized that he had been holding. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I'm grateful.”

When he looked at Lya, he saw that his daughter's eyes were blazing dangerously. “You shouldn't need to be grateful in the first place,” she told George forcefully. “We're your family; you shouldn't need to fear our reactions when you tell us shit like this.”

“Language,” George said habitually.

Lya rolled her eyes. “I'm twenty-seven, dad; I'll swear if I so fucking want.”

George's stomach did a small somersault when he heard Lya call him dad. He swallowed. “Apart from your language, which I sincerely hope will improve from now on”—Lya rolled her eyes again—”I just want to tell you how much this means to me. That you're here. That you, well, believe me,” he said awkwardly.

Abby shrugged. “You've never been big on lying, dad, and you're terrible at it. Trust me, we'd know if you were making this up.”

Ignoring her sister, Lya pointed a finger at George. “How very presidential of you,” she drawled mockingly. “I can practically see the elaborate speeches meant to inspire courage and loyalty.”

George averted his eyes, flushing with embarrassment. “I wasn't really one for public speaking,” he admitted. “Or speeches in general, really. Alexander was the one who did most of the writing.”

Jer groaned. “So in addition to being you're Treasury Secretary, he was also your speechwriter?” she asked, incredulity in her voice. “No wonder the guy burned himself out.”

George smiled wistfully. “Alexander was… something else entirely,” he conceded.

Lya leaned forward eagerly. “Is it true that he was your bastard?” she asked bluntly.

Abby shoved her shoulder. “Lya!” she hissed. “That's rude.”

Lya shrugged. “Well, if he was, that would make him our brother, of sorts. I was just curious as to whether to issue him invitations to family gatherings from now on.”

Abby glared. “I hardly think Mom would be all too happy about that,” she told Lya pointedly.

George stiffened at the mention of Rebecca. His eyes flickered to the doorway where Rebecca had disappeared.

Lya followed his look. She sighed. “Mom will—she’ll come around,” she said, offering George a small smile. “I’ll talk to her.”

George suddenly found that he wasn't quite able to speak past the lump that had somehow formed in his throat, as though his larynx was clogged up with something. For a moment, he couldn't get the words out.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Lya smiled. “Think nothing of it, dad.” She leaned across the table, kissing George's cheek. “Merry Christmas, dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Happy 2018 everyone :)

**Author's Note:**

> comments are the best christmas presents you can give


End file.
